


Guilty Pleasures

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Cute Castiel, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5749921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>spoilers for Season 11, Episode 3 (ish)</p><p>What is Castiel's greatest guilty pleasure, watching Netflix, or watching Dean Winchester?</p><p>Dean could be… complicated.   What he said, wasn’t always what he meant, and sometimes even what he meant wasn’t what he wanted, and what he wanted was very rarely what he needed.</p><p>Life was a lot simpler on Netflix.  You picked what you wanted, you watched it, it predicted what you wanted next, and mostly it was right.  Cas needed a Deanflix log in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Netflix

Her throat felt vital under his hands. He could feel her blood coursing in the veins and arteries under his fingers, the knotty solid of her windpipe felt brittle, and she gurgled slightly as he squeezed tighter. 

She stared terrified into the blood rimmed eyes, as her vision started to blacken, he was too strong for her to fight, and the guttural grunting coming from his throat was anything but human sounding. He must be high on something, some part of her mind above and beyond the terror of knowing that she was about to die, was idly considering what had led her to this place to die at the hands of some drugged up nutter in a trench coat in this gloomy back street warehouse.

The other man appeared from nowhere, began pleading for her life, well more pleading for sanity, and suddenly she was released, she choked and coughed needed no second invitation, she ran for her life.

Castiel stared at his own hands. He fought for control, feeling the spell surging through him, lithe and serpentine, tendrils in his mind, he fought the confusion, this must be how it felt to be possessed, but he could not hang on, the urge was too strong. Kill… he needed to kill… the man was in front of him now. Hands reaching towards him… Kill.

He was trying to reason with him. But it meant nothing, he needed to kill. He threw him effortlessly against the mesh wall, and began to beat him, relentlessly. His ears swam with noise, an endless, pulsing, drumming noise, somewhere amidst the roar was an endless scream, a howl of despair. Stop. It's Dean. This is Dean. But the spell was stronger. Kill. He punched again and again. Kill.

Rowena’s words hit him like a blast wave. The spell twitched inside him, reacting to it’s mistress, the tendrils withdrawing, tearing away from his mind and his body. His grace, still screaming inside him, surged back, and he writhed in agony, as the two separated. He convulsed and spasmed in danger of bashing his own brains out on the concrete floor.

He heard his name, Dean’s face swam into focus, blood dribbling from the nose, cheek swelling already, the green eyes full of concern. He saw the relief, and dropped his head into the hand cradling him from the concrete. He felt so weak, the gentle fingers against his cheek were comforting, and he could feel his heart bursting with gratitude. His last thought as he lapsed away again, was that he was safe.  
   
**************************************************************************************************************************

His body was weak, and he actually ‘needed’ sleep. He had caught Sam and Dean a couple of times, in worried whispered conversations, stopping talking and suddenly folding laundry or cleaning work surfaces when he walked in the room. 

He enjoyed long hot showers, water streaming over his body, prickling his skin, making him feel alive and invigorated. He felt safe in the bunker, contented, the only thing that pained him was how much he missed his conversations with Dean. 

They talked, but did not really say anything, other than Dean’s insistence that he concentrate on healing himself. He knew guilt when he saw it, boy did he know guilt. For the first time ever, he actually felt closer to Sam. Dean was so guarded and became awkward when they talked. He resolutely refused to let Cas heal his wounds, insisting he was ‘fine’. He had caused those injuries under the influence of the spell. He hated them, seeing pain where he could make things right, seeing those bruises and swelling distorting the handsome face made him feel useless.

He had never realised you could miss someone so much whilst being in such close physical proximity to them. Everytime he tried to talk, Dean rebuffed him, or found an excuse to be somewhere else. So he stopped trying to speak to him, and just found excuses to be around. He made himself useful, doing research, looking for cases. Being rebuked and told to rest was better than not being spoken to at all. He would do anything to be near him or to hear a hint of affection in the drawling voice. He watched him, quietly, silently at every opportunity. 

He padded softly into the laundry room, unobtrusively matching socks, so he could stay without intruding. Careful not to be seen to be watching, blue eyes flicking up under long lashes, he watched Dean methodically folding his laundry with the military precision that he did any repetitive task. 

He didn’t eat, but he prepared sandwiches and platefuls of fluffy eggs, he washed up and made coffee, sitting at the huge table in the main room, while the brothers ate, using the social time as an excuse to watch him eat. Fascinated by the strong jaw, and the pouting lips. Green eyes hazed and lost in thought as he ate or drank. 

He knew Dean would go crazy if he knew, but he watched him sleep. Feeling better knowing that Dean was resting. Long legs twisting in the bed clothes, face pressed awkwardly into his pillow. He gently supressed the nightmares, when he saw them developing, but he did not invade his dreams, knowing that would be a step too far. 

His favourite place to be was the garage, watching Dean washing the cars or fine tuning the engines. Face calm, engrossed in his work, soothed as he always was when he worked on a car. He wore shorts and T, lovingly soaping the patina of the paintwork, rinsing and polishing, especially Baby, until she gleamed. Cas stared at the strong frame, reaching and stretching, muscles rippling under the smooth skin, he knew Dean would be mad if he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Next to talking to him, this was the best he was going to get.

He was sat casually and hidden on the work bench one evening, legs swinging under the counter edge, when Sam appeared, he’d found a case. He zapped himself quietly away, as they began to discuss him, feeling guilty for eavesdropping, as Sam tried again, unsuccessfully to advocate on his behalf. He sighed and dropped back onto his bed, feeling lost, playing surprised when Sam dropped his head around the door to say they were going to Quaker Valley, Oregon.

He rang them as soon as he dared, his offers of help met with stubborn resistance. He did as he was told and walked quietly into Sam’s room turning on the TV and following the instructions. He was hooked. He had missed television when he was in purgatory, and now Sam had introduced him to Netflix. Series after series of stories, his world opened up through the tiny square box. All the centuries he had watched human kind. He began to understand some of the references that used to fly over his head. The dramas and worlds of fictional characters occupied his brain and filled it with considerations other than his own. He still found time to help Dean with the case, of course, listening with some alarm to the sounds of fighting over the crackly phone line. His relief when they called him to say it was over, and the monster was dead had been heartfelt, the news that they would be at least two days travelling back, let him free to indulge his newfound addiction.

He sighed, as another episode ended and the credits rolled, he watched the little timer counting down and rubbed his eyes. He needed to sleep, without thinking he zapped himself to Dean’s room as had become his habit of late. He had been so lost in what he had been watching, he had forgotten that the Winchesters were still miles away in a motel somewhere. He flicked open his phone, finger hovering over the dial button, he didn’t know exactly where they were, how would he explain ringing them at 2 am to find out? He was not sure what to do, he desperately wanted to see Dean, felt the need to know he was safe, and that his dreams were untroubled.

He sat on the bed, moving aside crumpled clothes, which unusually for Dean lay discarded on the bed. He sat back against the pillows, breathing in the scent of whiskey and travel that was peculiar to Dean. He felt himself relaxing, he would rest here briefly before he went to bed. Dean would never know.

***************************************************************************************************************************

It had been a long slow ride back, Baby was pretty beat up, it was hard to travel at any speed with no windshield, they had paused briefly in a Gas n Sip, using the squeegee to wash off the blood and replenish the gas tank. The road trip had felt good, the two of them together, like old times, fighting a monster, winning, saving some good folk, reuniting a mother with her children. 

It was the early hours when they rolled into the garage at the bunker. Sam woke as the engine stilled, looking puzzled for a moment, until he realised that instead of pulling into a motel like they’d told Cas when they checked in from the road, his brother had driven on through the night. He gave Dean a tired grin, understanding the need to return to the bunker, Baby was their first home, but this place was definitely their second. He patted Dean on the shoulder and strolled off yawning along the corridor. For his part, Dean was beat, he stroked the Impala’s roof ruefully, “Don’t worry Baby, tomorrow, I promise, I just need some sleep.”

He hummed softly to himself, as he padded along the corridor towards his room. Everything ached, he’d been beat up pretty bad, and this time he would let Cas heal him, he’d promised Sam, but that could wait til morning, no point waking him. Unless he was still binging on Netflix. In spite of his tiredness he chuckled to himself, there was something distinctly funny about Cas’ new found devotion to TV and at least it wasn’t porn. He flinched at the memory of the ‘pizzaman’.

There was no tell-tale flicker sneaking out from under the heavy oak door of Cas’ room. He paused briefly, listening for any sound, but all was quiet. He smiled relieved, the rest would do him good. Cas didn’t sleep often, but now that his body was his alone, and no longer just a vessel he had become a little more human, and sleep seemed to do him good.

The smile froze on his face as the repressed guilt he felt at the harm he had caused Cas, bubbled to the surface, he closed his eyes briefly, and the image of the battered and bleeding angel formed unwanted, he pushed it from his mind, he had come so close to killing him under the influence of the mark and he could not bear to think of it. That was why he didn’t want to be healed. He needed the bruises and the pain to appease the unbearable shame of hurting his best friend, his only remaining family apart from Sam. Another memory swam into focus, how he had hidden behind the ice pack rather than deal with the hurt, rejected look on Cas’ face when he had tried to heal him, as he clumsily tried to apologise and express his gratitude at being saved from the spell. “I had it coming,” was all the explanation Dean could give. He had sensed rather than seen Sam’s pursed lips, and the look that Sam and Cas exchanged. Whatever had happened while he had been AWOL after Kevin’s death, had cemented their friendship, Sam’s uneasy jealousy of his relationship with Cas was gone, they had reached an understanding, become each others confidants. It was a small nugget of relief in a stream of troubles.

Whatever, he was dog-tired, he would sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. It was perhaps because he was so exhausted that it was only as the door shut behind him and he was plunged into darkness that he realised he was not alone. Adrenaline surged and he was instantly alert. He felt in his waistband for his knife, and edged into the room, reaching for the lights. He snapped them on, and took in the scene.

A pair of blue eyes blinked at him from an earnest upturned face in the sudden brightness. “Hello Dean.”

“Cas, what the hell…” the question died in his throat, as he realised he was still holding the knife ready for action. He put it away and consciously relaxed. “What the hell are you doing, Cas? You scared the crap outta me. Why are you in my room?”

Cas looking away awkwardly. 

“You know what, Cas, I’m so damned tired, I can’t even think about this right now.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and wavered slightly. “You’re hurt,” Cas said flatly. Dean dropped his hand away and saw the cuts and bruises from the hand cuffs on his own wrists through fresh eyes. They might have washed the blood from Baby after the scrap, but he hadn’t bothered to clean himself up. He must look a sight, bloodied, with a huge cut over one eye, and a bite mark on his neck.

“Yeah, nothing that won’t heal,” he said gruffly.

“Dean,” Cas reached towards him. “Let me fix it, this time.” The deep rusty voice had a soft pleading edge to it, and Dean did not flinch away from the extended hand. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed.

“You can fix me, Cas, just as soon as you go fix Sam.” Reluctantly, Cas withdrew his extended arm, and nodded his compliance.

Dean pulled off his boots and leant back on his pillows. The bed was warm where Cas had been lay, he shook his head slightly, too tired to think through the connotations of finding Cas in his bed. He dropped instantly to sleep, reclining fully clothed on top of the disturbed blankets.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Sam jumped at the knock on his door. Cas stood in t-shirt and shorts. “Dean says I have to heal you first," he stated, direct as ever.

Sam smiled at him. “That wasn’t the deal,” he said, amused, dropping his arm from the door and inclining his head to allow Cas to enter. He looked, Sam thought, hollow. The normally bright blue eyes, looked dull and sunken. “Er, Cas, dude, you don’t look so good.”

Cas flashed him a meek little smile, how like Sam to be concerned about him when he looked like he could barely stand. “I am better…not back, but better. The spell has weakened me considerably. It tore me up inside, my grace is tattered. Being so out of control was …” his face contorted as it always did when he was trying to find a way of describing emotion, “… troubling.” Even after several years of trying, he still struggled with the categorisations.

“Troubling,” Sam carried off a perfect impression of the gruff voice and shook his head at the understatement. It was quite clear that Cas had been rocked to the core. Rowena had certainly pulled quite a number on him, and having a spell burrowing so deep, well Sam could understand how that felt. “You fought, Cas. Anyone else would have been gone. You managed to hold it back, long enough for us to get it undone. And Rowena will keep.” Sam patted his arm. “Heal me, buddy and then get back to Dean. Let’s get him fixed up, while he’s too tired to refuse.”

Cas touched his forehead, and Sam sighed as he felt his cuts healing, and the aching broken ribs knitted themselves back together. He stretched his shoulders, even the nagging ache in his bones from sheer exhaustion lifted, and all he felt now was deeply, deeply fatigued. “Dean is a jerk, Cas. He feels guilty. He hurt you bad, and he’s punishing himself.”

Cas nodded sadly, they were covering old ground. He and Sam, they had a deeply shared understanding of guilt, and of the walking, talking exasperation that was Dean Winchester. “Dean told me once that punishing yourself was ‘self indulgent crap’. We all feel so guilty all the time, I have been thinking that it is counterproductive.”

“Welcome to the Winchester paradigm.” Sam slapped his shoulder. “Go. Fix him.”

Cas sighed heavily. Fixing Dean Winchester was not as simple as repairing a few bruises and broken bones. The things that he had seen, done, been through, any normal man would have completely shattered years ago. 

Sam watched the slightly stooped figure shuffle down the corridor with deep concern. If only those two would just give in to the obvious, things would be a lot easier, for all of them. He dropped thankfully onto his bed and slept almost before his head touched the pillow.

************************************************************************************************************************


	2. Deanflix

Dean was snoring slightly as Cas quietly opened his bedroom door. He hadn’t even bothered to turn out the light. Cas was in a quandary, technically Dean had given him permission to heal him. He’d fixed Sam first, but Dean could be… complicated. What he said, wasn’t always what he meant, and sometimes even what he meant wasn’t what he wanted, and what he wanted was very rarely what he needed.

Life was a lot simpler on Netflix. You picked what you wanted, you watched it, it predicted what you wanted next, and mostly it was right. Cas needed a Deanflix log in. Maybe, just maybe, he could go into his dreams. He could sneak a look, and maybe decide whether he should risk waking him up.

He sat gently on the bed, hoping that Dean’s Casdar would wake him up, but as ever with Dean, when you most needed him to be predictable he was the damned opposite. One little look would do no harm. He didn’t even have to make Dean aware he was there. He watched the lightly twitching eyes, REM, Dean was definitely dreaming, he murmured something and his agitation was growing. Mind made up, Cas flicked into the dream.

 

There was physical pain, and anxiety, he pushed through random thoughts and deeper into Dean's mind, trying to see the cause. The gloomy light of the warehouse was instantly familiar, he felt the aching ribs and the explosions of blood vessels, painful punches and bruises blossoming. Then the presence of Sam and Rowena, the anxiety increasing. The image began to form now from the maelstrom swirl of emotions, sensations and sounds, the dream lurched into full Technicolor. 

The ancient tongue echoed through the space and he saw his own trench-coated figure, falling down, writhing on the dusty concrete floor. The anxiety surged threatening to unfocus the image again, but he managed to hold onto it in Dean’s mind. And then he heard his name, Dean was calling his name, and as he watched himself extending Dean’s hand to cradle his own face, he saw the eyes flicker open, his own deep blue eyes, staring back at him. Not the beastly red and yellow of Rowena’s spellbound creation. 

There was a momentary sensation of blissful relief and then the dream filled with love. The image began to disintegrate into pure sensations and he felt the warmth of another body against his own, hair brushing his face as he cocooned someone in his arms and his lips brushed the soft strands.

 

Cas jumped to his feet, lurching out of the dream in a confused rush. Dean made a small gurgling noise as his breath caught in his throat and Cas swallowed heavily, the connection not quite finished. His real legs felt weak, and he slumped back onto the bed, aware that the sudden movement would properly wake Dean he tried to steady himself, but only succeeded in bouncing himself off the bed, falling in a little heap on the floor.

Dean opened one sleep strained eye. “Dammit Cas, either sit or don’t sit. Stop bouncing about like Tigger on speed.”

Cas picked himself up and perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. Dean sighed and pushed himself up, wincing as he did so. Cas leant forward, but hesitated, blushing at the memory of the dream he had just invaded. He was far more aware of privacy now, Dean had seen to that, impatiently and repeatedly trying to teach him human social skills. But he was utterly confused, the dream was not quite how he remembered the encounter, but that was the point of human dreams, they played out what someone wanted as well as what happened.

Dean glowered at him. He opened his arms in a gesture of frustration and invitation. “Do it,” he snapped. “Get on with it, you’ve been following me round the bunker like my own personal stalker since we brought you back. You’re not gonna let me sleep till I let you. Just do it.” His voice was an angry growl of impatience.

Cas felt incredibly anxious, how did he know? The urge was still there from the dream, Dean’s desires mingled with his own and he felt a rising sense of sheer panic.

“Dammit Cas, now or never.” Dean snapped, as Cas shifted, uncomfortable and awkward in his own skin. The gasp of shock he gave as Cas leant in and kissed him firmly on the cheek, brought Cas sharply back to his senses. He drew back, eyes wide as it dawned on him that maybe this was not what Dean had meant. 

Dean for his part, tilted his head, slightly, mouth a small surprised o. Cas tried to read his reaction, his own face pensive, as Dean unconsciously moistened his lower lip, shocked, bewildered, but not angry. Cas clung to that small fact…not angry. He leant forward hurriedly, extending his fingers and making contact with Dean’s forehead, healing him and sending him back to sleep, before Dean could speak.

He cupped the bristly cheek as Dean’s head slumped sideways, just as he had watched Dean do to his own face in the dream, lowering him gently to the bed. He stared at him uncertainly, before deciding that he had to try and move him, as his current position awkwardly bunched up against the bedstead would never be comfortable.

He shifted round on the bed, the covers trapping his feet and tangling round his legs, trying to lift Dean down so that he could lay him back against the pillows, only to find himself pinned under one heavy arm as Dean rolled onto his side. He didn't want to disturb the peaceful slumber, and he feared even zapping out would wake him. It wasn’t unpleasant, so he lay quietly, feeling the steady warm breath that smelt faintly of beer ruffling the hair behind his ear and against his neck.

 

Sam woke, and sighed, the urgency in his bladder forcing him from the warm comfort of his own bed. He plodded down the corridor, and noticed the light on in Dean’s room. He washed up, checking his reflection in the mirror, having their own personal medicine angel certainly prevented scarring, he mused. He flicked off the bathroom light, and turned back along the corridor. He wanted to make sure that Dean had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Not letting Cas near him was just plain stupid. He knew his brother of old, filling the void with pain, was not going to help in the long run. Cas was right, all this guilt was counterproductive. Dean should listen to his own sage words sometimes… punishing yourself was self-indulgent crap.

The door was ajar, which meant he could safely enter without interrupting Dean having ‘personal time’. Being on the road together for as many years as they had required certain protocols to avoid embarrassment. Closed bedroom doors required knocking, open ones did not.

He stopped in the doorway, hand resting lightly on the old chrome of the door knob and smiled. Dean lay fully clothed, on his side, face peaceful and more importantly utterly unmarked. He was snoring slightly, his arms wrapped tightly around Cas, who slept equally soundly, one hand resting lightly in Dean's their fingers entwined. "Aw. Bless them," he thought as he flicked off the light and closed the heavy oak door. "The conversation round the breakfast table tomorrow morning is going to be very interesting..."


End file.
